If you were to ask me to name my favorite color, I would, without hesitation, say “grey.” You see, if colors could speak, he would have the most to say. Because sadly, my dear friend grey is only a placeholder. For, at some point in my life, my favorite color was red.
I was sitting in my local coffee shop, sipping Chai and watching the crowd of customers seep through the doors, inside from the cold winter snow that still felt so odd to a native Californian. As I sat, watching, I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder, and a soft voice ask, “do you mind if I sit across from you?”
“Of course not,” I replied. “But let me warn you, I’m feeling talkative today,” And so, she sat across from me, and her appearance struck me with awe; she was gorgeous. The observer of the small things in life, I immediately noticed her cherry red lipstick, and the stain it had made on the white lid of her cup. Little did I know that she would leave the same impression on me, I the canvas, she the artist. We made small talk, no topic more profound than our wishes for the weather. However, I did learn her name: Catherine. Eventually I excused myself and went on my way to my nine-to-five. At that time, I was enrolled at Stanford University, pursuing a degree in architectural engineering. Through my undergraduate program, I had gained an internship at a local home design business. It was mostly record keeping and information management, like any internship, but I would occasionally get to watch the architects do their work. All-in-all, my life was going just the way I had hoped. I was pleasantly well off, considering that I was just starting my first year as a graduate. I had my own one bedroom apartment in downtown San Jose, along with my trusty Chevy Silverado. During the next few weeks, I went to the my usual coffee shop, drank my usual chai, watched the usual customers. Every now and then I’d see Catherine and her red lipstick. She’d sit across from me and we would partake in the usual small talk. As time progressed, I grew more used to her long, brown hair, her tendency to rabble, and how she would apologize when it happened. The next week, four weeks after we had met, we went out to dinner. I wore a pair of black slacks and a grey dress shirt. She wore a short, red dress that matched her cherry-red lipstick. When I took her home that night, she parted happily, staining my cheek. See, many people believe that Heaven is enclosed by a golden gate, leading into a splendid whiteness. However, it is now my assumption that, while the gates may still be golden, the trinity sits on red thrones. This was the beginning of our beautiful, but tragically short lived relationship. Around this time, my life had changed dramatically. As a result of the recent increase in property price, my employer was forced to cut people from their payroll. I was, unfortunately, one of those people. Between paying for gas, rent, and the basic necessities of living, I was struggling to make ends meet. This, along with my history of chronic depression, threw me into a downward spiral of despair. If there was ever a time that I needed a companion, someone to talk to and confide in, that time was now. To put it plainly, Catherine was my saviour. She was my second coming of Christ, my salvation. If religion is the opium of the people, she was my heroin. I, sadly, grew dependent, and as my condition worsened, I could see a physical strain that she persisted to keep at the wayside. She was stronger than me, more stable, my rock. After a year of dating, we decided to move in together, to test the waters. At this time, we learned countless things about each other. She learned that I was quite disorganized, and that I would often stay up late just to wake up early in the morning. I learned that she was a fantastic cook, which, to me, wasn’t too surprising, as I had taken up a diet of Ramen Noodles and microwave pizzas. I also learned that she wasn’t hesitant to cry, as I would often waken to her sniffles. This was one of the most surprising things I found out about her, as she was never anything but happy when we would go out. That summer, we decided to go on our first road trip. Excitedly, we packed our suitcases into the back of my old truck, and drove to Seattle for the week. At this point, she learned another thing about me - I had terrible motion sickness. Throughout the course of our drive, which we somehow accomplished in two days, I had to pull over eight times. Due to this, we spent most of our time in Seattle visiting restaurants and shops that were within walking distance of our hotel. To this rule, we made one exception. On our last night in Seattle, we decided to get reservations for the restaurant on the top of the Space Needle. Coincidentally, for nostalgia’s sake, we wore the same attire that we had worn on our first date. The stars shone above us, her features being exemplified in the pouring moonlight. She was beautiful. Little did she know that, in my pocket, I carried a small diamond ring, purchased with money that I had mustered up over the course of the last few months. And so, in the night air, witnessed by the patrons at the needle and God himself, I got down on my knee. Never the aficionado of speech, I blushed and, holding my breath, brought forth the small box, accompanied with a single line we’ve all heard. “Will you marry me?” Nodding her head and holding back tears, she took the small box from my hands. She whispered a simple “Yes”, and, her hands shaken removed the ring from its prison. However, I suppose the trembling of her hands didn’t help her in the act of sliding the ring onto her finger. She dropped it. She covered her mouth, an exclamatory “Oh!” breaking from her lips as one of the staff stepped on the ring, producing a crunch loud enough that it was only seconded by my breaking heart. Then, it was an unhappy accident. Now, I believe it may have been a sign. The next day, both for wanting of our sunny home and the fixing of the broken ring, we left our hotel. We left Seattle early in the morning, hoping to drive as far as we could. While on the road, it began to rain. This, coupled with the darkening sky, made my occasional stops an extreme nuisance. My fiance and I had a small argument, she telling me that it would have been wise to take something before we had left the hotel. For the next hour or so, we were silent, a silence which, unknown to us, would never be broken. My truck was quite old at this point, at approximately fifteen years old, I had often worried that the airbags wouldn’t function. As it turns out, my cause for concern was justified. As the downpour of rain increased, road conditions became increasingly worse. This, coupled with the longevity of our drive, and my heated attitude, led me to not notice the headlights in front of me. An oncoming truck in my lane. Unfortunately for me, my airbag deployed. Unfortunately for Catherine, hers didn’t. It was at this point that I learned that the only red deeper than that of her lipstick was the tone of her blood. Her head had hit the dashboard, bouncing off of the hard surface and into the passenger side window. When the paramedics arrived, there was not much they were able to do; she had suffered a brain hemorrhage due to the force of impact. The police later told me that the driver of the truck in front of us had been had been drunk. However, I have never shaken the feeling that I had caused my lover’s death. Maybe it was due to my inability to stop the accident, but the more I worried about it, the more I realized that it was due to my stubbornness in conceding fault. Over the course of the next month, I was reduced to a hermit, only leaving my apartment in order to buy food. The next semester, I failed every class that I had signed up for, ruining my chance to ever become an architect like I had always wanted. The revelation that I had single-handedly ruined my life only worsened my downward spiral into the current state of depression I now find myself in. I didn’t have the income to pay for a therapist or to buy antidepressants, so I was forced to trudge through my daily life, hating myself for every mistake I had ever made. Today, for the first time in about two months, I decided to go out. Peace hasn’t come to me, and I doubt it ever will, but I can not continue my life as it is going now. When I went out, it was raining; it had been doing so for the past few days. It matters not to me, however, for all I see is grey, all I ever feel is cold. As I walk, I can’t help but think about the humility of the human race. We are the passengers of an overly large atom of dust, flying endlessly into the void and emptiness of space, with no destination in particular. And so, I went back to my apartment complex, and, looking upwards, decided that it would do me well to gain a bit of perspective. I ride the elevator to the twelfth story, from there proceeding up the stairs out onto the roof.
First post. Any constructive criticism is appreciated.